


Camp NaNoWriMo Stories

by Spookywanluke



Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:42:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spookywanluke/pseuds/Spookywanluke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the stories and drabbles from July Camp 2014 Day 1 onwards that aren't big enough or haven't been finished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spark of Intelligence

“Come all this fine morning, we have the best available across this vast countryside on offer. Today, the honour is upon Braddn and the light has shone on the animals he has provided. Strong as oxen, able to be worked to the whites. Come all and view the feast for eyes“

The spruiker called out enticingly to the crowds gathering around the grounds, swishing his whip as though he knew how to use it. He walked up and down calling out and generally distracting attention to the goods further along.

 

A feast? This was not feast. As they passed me, perched with the other interested buyers, they walked insingle step, chains rattling along the ground. Cleaned and clear, in stark contrast with the surrounding terrain, they moved as if in a trance with unseeing eyes, staring into the distance, not even daring to blink. There was not a spark of intelligence present at all. Even my docile pony had more life than those being paraded across the dusty selling grounds.

I had come, hoping for some humanity present amongst these animals, these aliens, but had come across a group of zombies- spirit broken and barely living.  
If I am to proceed with my plans of revenge, these poor specimens would not suffice. I hope tomorrow’s crop will show better resilience.


	2. Eastern Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John navigating an apocalyptic London.

This once great city was breathing it last breath before utter collapse. I can understand why though, when an entire section separated down the middle due to a break and shift in the tectonic plate, it does tend to disrupt life and the lifespan of a city. News that had managed to escape across the divide in the early days blamed it on a “localised natural event”, but many still believe that it was a scientific test gone wrong. 

On one side, sections still act like nothing has changed in life – Peak hour still happens, homeless are an issue, People go to work and go home etc. Well other than train lines that go nowhere, buildings now located near a cliff and electrical brownouts.  
On the other side – it is chaos. Most utilities except for one power station was located on the other side of the city, so while electricity still runs it is very unreliable and blackouts are the norm, sewers lead to nowhere and occasionally back up, there is no running water.. Some phone towers still work, but reception is at the level of the early 90’s – go into a building or tunnel and there goes your call. 

No trains move throughout the city and the roads are clogged with the destroyed remnants of cars and other motor vehicles. The only way to navigate through is to take a risk and bike around in the open, walk the battlefield that is the streets and lower levels or parkour through buildings and across roofs. Night-time is the safest for travel but high are the chances of a fatal misstep or fall.  
Turf wars sprung up within weeks of the “event” and have spread over the entirety of this side with three main groups battling it out: The Coterie which hosts three chapters and is mostly ex-military and police, The Blackouts – a mixture of gangs and thugs that are trying to rule the streets by arms, and the Unknown – This is a slippery group that has been the cause of most of the large destruction of the remaining city, but rarely actually show themselves outside of bombing and other terrorists acts.

 

Every time I left the shadow of the office block along Down Street, the morning sun glared off the dewy grass and shattered glass that covered the sidewalk. Metal shone almost blindingly where paint was missing off the broke, beat-up cars littering the road beside me. Diurnal as I had become, this still made me wish for the glasses I used to have before all this happened. Having been travelling throughout the early morning darkness, I was starting to become tired and sore, but I still had a long way to travel further before I could rest. Being a one of the messenger soldiers and the one of the few healers remaining this side of the divide for the eastern chapter of the Coterie, I was in high demand and generally had to travel far to each lowdown regularly. 

Gunfire echoed across the metal structures surrounding me, sounding as if both far and near, but having been though situations like this before, I knew to take cover. Being out in the open was not a smart idea during the day. Ducking into the nearest building, I aimed for the fire escape steps, heading for the roof. This area of the city was linked by adjoining roofs, stairs and narrow passageways for many kilometres if you knew where they were. Lucky, I have had to travel many times this direction and have discovered some shortcuts.  
Before the “Event” I had been a limping broken man, finding my way in a civilian world after a warzone. Little did I know the warzone would follow me home in an unexpected way.

 

Eight Mile Road was just around the corner thank goodness. It was heading on mid-morning at this time and I’d finally arrived at the cross-point in my journey. Running along the roof of an old supermarket, I can to a sudden stop. Ahead the roof was missing, a jagged trench of twisted metal and flickering sparks.. (It had been there a week before when I came last through), most likely an indicator of remaining heavy ordinance in some faction's hand. Ducking down, my gun off my back in my hands, I crawled to the edge, looking for hostile activity and a way through. I did not want to be forced back to ground level. There. A pice of metal, almost like a malformed ladder was leaning on one side. There was no sign of current activity nearby and the gunfire from earlier had moved south from my current location. Gun slung again, I dropped a pice of cloth from my torn pants onto the bar, checking that it was not electrified. Then I skimmed my way down the ever shaking makeshift ladder to the level below, keeping low once I hit the tiled flooring. As quiet as possible, I made my way to the nearest emergency exit outside and scaled the metal work to the roof again, continuing on the journey back to base.


	3. El Cupracabra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is not what he seems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Wearing the inside out - Pink Floyd

_My skin is cold , to the human touch.  This bleeding heart's,  not beating much._

 

Running down the street after the crazy bastard was very much my way of life these days. He of the long cloak, perpetual scarf and gloves, pale skin, nocturnal habits and attrocious attitude. If the world’s novels are right, he’d be the perfect candidate to be a vampire.  Considering how little he eats and sleeps, most wouldn’t be much surprised if he fed on a bystander in the middle of Trafalgar square

In reality, the truth is much stranger.

To my knowledge there are no species the same as Dracula. Oh sure there are blood-sucking bats, insects, even a disorder where a person craves the taste of blood but not a 6 foot something, possibly sparkly, sunlight hating (unless you drink a foul concoction that would generally kill a person) monster with a bad attitude, likely stained teeth, never decaying undead body and a pension for “sucking your blood”.

This is just fantasy, just like all the stories about fairies, dragons ( really?) and other supernatural beings… Though like all legends, there is a single core, a tiny nugget of truth.

 One continent came close.

 

The Latin Americas have a name for a mythological creature that at least bares similarities to that of Dracula: El Chupacabra.

A 3-4 foot, goat-sucking, exsanguinating little grey man with eyes like the Roswell Critter and spines down the back. The only thing this little creature has in common with Vlad is a need for blood to survive. These creatures can live without blood for months on end, only needing new sources every few months, when injured or sick. Well known for draining goats dry, these creatures are believed to be able and willing to drink from any animal even humans, leaving three holes in the husk of a body. Animal or human doesn't matter; it all goes down the same.

____

 

 

There are advantages to being an ex-soldier- no one touches you. No one is willing to get too close in an odd sense of..pity maybe? It is a blessing in disguise as no one lingers long enough on skin to realise that it's not the normal temp, distictively cold to the touch. Even if just fed this only goes up by so much which I’ve not done in a long time.

 

Hollywood did get something close- my heart still beats...

It would be scientifically impossible to live without one as the body would decompose no matter the blood feeding it. It just doesn’t beat  to the same speed as a human; unless in full movement my body requires less oxygenated blood. It's the rate a pearl diver would have mid-job or a meditating monk.

 

Trust me though; it's fruitless looking for indications of teeth or supernatural strength, unless you see me mid-hunting form. Oh what a shock that would be- I do not look like the John Watson of the furry jumpers everyone knows, I'm a ferocious grey vaguely human monster of South American horror tales…

We do not feed as a mythological vampire would - we do not have hollow teeth and blood/poison sacs, we even have normal teeth, canine in origin I believe, to tide over when multiple creatures are sparse. This allows us to not only extract blood, but to sustain nutrients through organs, bone and cartilage. The blood orifice is an extendable straw like appendage from our shoulders that retracts internally when not in use.

 

Was I born like this? Yes but not as John Watson, I am him, but that was a cuckoo-like switch that occurred when young,  We are social creatures but with our kind on the verge of extinction, there's no one to trust, to rely on, any chance of spreading the species or just to socialize is snapped up. My name is not easily pronounced, but remembered through a form of generic memory of our species....

 

Even with the enormous blind spots that the world’s only Consulting Detective has, he has not once clued on that something is wrong with me, at least beyond the fact that I’m ‘supposedly’ the only person able and willing to live with the great clod. I can only chalk this up to the fact that in all the time since I returned from Afgan, I have not fed. I should have, it would have easily helped heal my shoulder (the bullet almost cut through my ability to drink blood at all, if it had been my other shoulder I would not have been able to keep up the illusion that I am human throughout the surgery.) and my leg wouldn’t have been an issue at all. Even after the Pool, where in retrospect I should have dropped the cover, latched on and bled Moriarty dry I didn’t drink a drop.

 

It’s been many months since the last feeding. Blue steak and marrow is not quite enough to sustain me and this is where it gets interesting… I was starving.

 

 - - - - -

The first crime scene we had been to in many months (Crime really does seem to come in spurts) and it happens to be a gory one at night, much to my internal consternation. Throughout the 10 minutes we were at the crime scene and the surrounds and I could feel how my aura shimmered on occasion, how I sometimes seemed to lose a tad of height then regain it, If anyone had looked close enough they would have seen a slight protrusion on my shoulder, but luckily, as Sherlock is fond of saying, no one pays attention.

There was one point, I think my skin turned grey- green, and Lestrade glanced at me. I shrugged it off blaming a kid with Gastro at work and contagions. With commiserations and a smile, he left me standing there, waiting for his highness to come down to earth and deign to inform us lesser mortals who did the deed.

 

It was a relief when Sherlock finally delivered a scathing report of the forensic work already done, how the girl was killed -multiple slices down arms and legs and an odd circular shaped protrusion on her bicep. "Not self-inflicted Anderson" - not suicide, and that he had a lead, “Come along John” as he stormed out of the room, not once looking back.  I nodded to the technicians and Lestrade and hurried after him, hoping I'd catch him before he performed one of his "I'm thinking" magical disappearing acts.

Luckily he was waiting for me by a taxi, into which we piled into, Sherlock indicating to the driver some place I didn't recognize. As we travelled to the destination, I started to get my internal compass back and realised we were heading into my old, pre-war hunting territory. This was a bit worrying but likely just a coincidence.  When there are others, our territories are small with overlapping boarders. These have caused fights in the distant past, but overall in cities with the current populations, there are no issues. In this occasion, I hadn't staked my claim for years, but it's instinctual to recognise the areas and this was the oldest. Especially as this was the first and only area where I had taken human life outside of Afganistan.  True he wasn't a nice man, but it leaves a sense impression.

 

It was as we got out of the cab when what I was sensing truly hit me. It wasn't my killing I could feel; no it was much, much fresher. Someone new enough not to have overtaken my territory, but making a good attempt at it. Thinking back to the body in the building before, I finally recognised the kill for what it was: A way to draw Sherlock to a lair. This creature knew enough about Sherlock to be able to draw him to his territory. I hadn't sensed the killer on the scene because the killer hadn’t been there, they just mangled and paid to made to look like a normal murder.

The thing that might save us tonight though was the interesting fact it seemed this creature didn't realise what John himself was. He might be Sherlock's only protection, hungry or not, but the question will be if their friendship will survive.

 

"Sherlock, Quiet" I call out in a whisper, tugging on his coat as he started to storm ahead in his usual reckless manner. He turned around, a bit startled and curious as to why I stopped him. "We have to be careful. We're chasing the Murderer to his lair right? I have a sense that it's a trap" Sherlock doesn't question me on this to my great relief, though he does shoot me a quizzical look before looking around carefully for a place to stalk his prey. (I almost laugh at that thought, a human stalking his only predator)   
 

 As we moved along, I was on full alert, expecting to be jumped at any point. I did have to warn Sherlock though. "If anything happens, if you see anything, don't freak.  We are not all mons..." As it happens in movies, this was when he struck. He stepped out of the alley ahead of us still looking vaguely human. "So Mr Holmes, you did follow me back here, but you're never going to leave. I didn't expect you to follow so quickly Mr Watson, like a good little puppy, but that won't matter"

Sherlock tried to talk, but before he got more than a word out I shushed him. “Not now, Sherlock, Your words won't work.  Let me deal with him." Threaten Sherlock, brush me off as a little puppy...Oh this young one has no idea what's going to happen.

“You know, you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. You know my  _name_ , but I don’t know yours. But see this is where I hold you at a disadvantage; I do not need your name to know  _what_  you are. You see, while eating generally strengthens people it also leaves markers, being  _hungry_ does not.

 

On that note, I leaped into the air above him, my aura shimmering into non-existence showing off my true nature just as I reached zenith and dropped on the killer’s head, claws and spines at full extension. I heard a sharp intake of breath behind me, but I placed it out of my mind – that will be dealt with in the future. In the meantime I had an enemy every bit as naturally vicious, but here I had the advantage: I had fought and killed single handed in a warzone, not just by stealth. This fight was going to have to be short.

A slice through one shoulder, across the right cheek and chest and one down other the side, we finally separated, I had only a cut to the hand, the advantage of surprise. Sadly that was long gone now.

“You hoodwinked me, but don’t think you’re stronger than me, I’ve recently fed and your tall drink is looking mighty tasty”

“Let’s see your spines into action, coward. Take over my territory then threaten my Soiyte (friend/family: no direct English equivalent), you’re dirt under my feet, only good to wash off”

We went at each other again; he aimed high trying to get at my injured shoulder, while I aimed low, way lower than expected. Taking a deep gash to said shoulder I rolled under his exposed half and sliced through a leg join causing him to crash to the left. Hearing a pained scream and crack, I struggled to my feet, swaying as I turned around, ready to defend Sherlock, to see him standing over the creature with a heavy bar pressing down on the feeding appendage, the right arm already hanging limp.  
  
“Sherlock, if you press any harder, you’ll kill him certainly” I slowly picked my way towards Sherlock, trying to piece together my aura around, though I was too tired to be very effective. “He needs to go on trial. We need to lock him down and get out of here; I can’t keep this up this facade”

Sherlock took a look pulled out a set of handcuffs and zip ties and together we stuck every available bit of the killer’s skin to the building pipes, especially focusing on the bits I knew couldn’t be dislocated. Lestrade was then called with the exact details of where to find the guy and where his killing zone was (Sherlock didn’t need me to tell him that) and then we bee-lined it back to baker street. Well I slowly hobbled with Sherlock walking ahead and constantly coming back.

Near a large park halfway home, Sherlock suddenly stopped beside me with a confused look on his face “You drink blood, yes. You have not fed on me? You clearly need it”

This was obviously a question phrased as a statement, but I answered it anyway “I can’t control how much I drink, only until it’s dry. I have only drunk from people when necessary”

“Yes, Yes I know your morals and war. But you need to feed, I can see it. Feed here”

“You don’t want to see it.”

“Yes I do, I want to know everything. Starting with are you really John Watson?”

“Yes I am, I’ll fill you in on everything when we get home so long as you promise not to tell that Big Brother of yours”

“hrump”

“Fine, stay here, I’ll be back and then we’ll go home, drink tea and forget tonight ever happened”

“Wouldn’t want to. You’re still able to surprise me”

“I am not your experiment, remember that”

“Not even a little? I’d kill to study you”

“Maybe a little, but you won’t need to do that. You are Soiyte, you get to know everything. Now I’ll be back”

And that was how Sherlock found out that vampires (in a fashion) do exist.

 


End file.
